Love Scene
by Elektra3
Summary: The classic deathbed scene, Draco/Pansy style. In the aftermath of Voldemort's final defeat, Draco and Pansy have one last conversation.


Yes, this is a Draco/Pansy story.  *waits patiently for catcalls to die down*  There simply aren't enough stories with this ship, so I thought I should rectify the situation.  *grins*  Besides, I like Pansy.  Sort of funny, really; when I first started reading fanfiction I absolutely hated her, but by the time I finished writing the first chapter of "Confessions," I loved her.  Weird how it works out, isn't it?  She's a fantastic (and fascinating) character, in my not-so-humble-opinion, so strong and weak at the same time – not to mention terrific fun to write about.

            Dedicated to my shipmates on the H.M.S. Snitch and Bitch for their support – not to mention letting me know that there actually _are other Draco/Pansy shippers out there.  We're a very quiet bunch, aren't we?_

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.  *checks watch*  Nope.  Sorry.  Still don't own it.

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When they finally let her in, she was still dressed in the black of a Death Eater, her curls limp, her face haggard, her limbs shaking.  She had never looked more beautiful to him.  "They let me have one last visit," she said in a hoarse voice.  "Isn't that sweet of them?"

            He gave a wheezing laugh, ignoring the pain.  "Yes, wonderful, " he slurred, his voice a pale shadow of his former sneer.  "They're stupid, and bureaucratic, and can't tell the Dark Mark from an enchanted teakettle, but at least they're nice enough to give you a last visit before they ship you off to Azkaban."  The laugh died out.  "They're listening to this conversation, you know."

            "Let them listen," she said with a sad half-smile.  "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

            "Yes, but you could at least have demanded marketing rights.  For when they sell transcripts of our touching last conversation, I mean."

            She snorted.  "Nobody would pay money for that.  They all want to hear about how you spent your last moments plotting against the Ministry.  And I don't think anybody really cares to think about why you aren't dead already."

            "That's the woman I love," he murmured.  "Always looking out for my well-being."

            "Well, I try."  Her face grew serious again.  "Why'd you do it?  Why did you jump in front of me like that?"

            He ignored the question, his head lolling to one side.  "You're beautiful, you know that?"

            Even with his vision hazing over, he didn't miss the way she tried to fight back tears.  "Draco, stop it."

            "Pansy, they gave me maybe four or five hours left to live.  Three hours ago I took a _crucio incendio right in the chest.  Will you let me speak?"_

            "Would you listen if I tried to stop you?"

            "Probably not."

            "Go on, then."  Her voice had now sunk to a whisper.

            "You know when I first fell in love with you?"

            "When's that?"

            "Our first fight.  You remember that?"

            She looked at him incredulously.  "Wasn't that when I threw the table at you?"

            "I shielded."

            "And I broke through your shield."

            "Yeah.  That's when."

            She took his hand.  "Draco, that's the daftest thing I've ever heard in my life."

            "It's true, though.  Daft or not.  That's the nice thing about being on your deathbed, you know – you can say daft things and nobody will laugh."

            "We're Death Eaters," she said with forced levity.  "They'll probably make an exception just for us."

            "I feel so special."  He closed his eyes; the light was hurting them.  "But in a way… I don't think I ever really saw just how beautiful you are before then.  Before you threw that table.  You were just standing there with your wand raised and – "

            "And?"

            "I never thought you were pretty before.  I always thought – you know what they always called you.  What was it again?  Pansy Pug-Face?"

            She smiled wryly.  "My personal favorite was when the Weaselette called me an armchair doily.  Your personal furniture cover."

            "Huh.  Never knew about that one."

            "Never caught on.  She never really had a way with words, you know – probably why Potter married her."

            "I knew there had to be a reason."  He swallowed, once.  Swallowed again.  "But I always thought – never thought I could say you were pretty and believe it.  Always thought… you know, you were nice enough, but I never thought I would ever have wanted to marry you if it hadn't been arranged.  Sort of like marrying whole-wheat toast, you know?"

            "Draco?"  Her voice was a whisper again.

            "Hmm?"

            "Promise me something."

            "Hmm?"

            "If you become a ghost, don't ever advise anyone on how to write love letters.  They'd exorcise you in a week.  If their girlfriends didn't draw and quarter them first."

            "I write very good love letters," he protested weakly.  "Didn't I?"

            "'Pansy,'" she quoted, "'I've gone to Brazil.  See you in a month.'  'Dear Pansy, I accidentally melted down your mother's antique sacrificial knives.  Try to cover for me.'  'Dear Pansy – '"

            "That," he cut in, using as lofty a tone as he could manage, "was a fluke.  And they weren't supposed to be love letters anyway."

            "Obviously not."  Her voice began to shake.  "I'm going to miss that."

            "Explaining to your mother why your husband melted down her sacrificial knives?"

            "I'm insulted.  My excuses are always _much better than that."_

            "Sorry.  You were saying?"

            "Just that I'm going to miss it.  _All of it.  Even your terrible love letters.  Because – we thought we would rule the world, you know?  Just you and me.  And the power didn't matter.  It didn't even matter.  Just that we would be __there, on top of everything, just to __live.  Just for the sake of __living, and…"  Her voice trailed off.  "I'm sorry.  I'm babbling.  I promised myself I wouldn't babble."_

            "Of course not.  Death Eaters aren't supposed to babble.  It's in our charter, if we even have a charter."

            "We don't."  Pause.  "Didn't."

            "Whatever."

            Silence.  Then, "So why did you do it?"

            "What, write bad love letters?"

            "No.  Jump in the line of fire when that Auror tried to curse me."

            "I couldn't have done anything else."

            Draco couldn't see, but he could tell she was shaking her head in disbelief by the way her hand tightened like it always did when she thought someone was lying to her.

            "Why?"

            "Because…"  He stopped, then started again.  "Before our first fight, before you threw that table at me, before… Pansy, I believed everything they said about you."

            "Pug-face Parkinson."

            "Yes," he whispered.  "But then I saw you standing there and… Merlin, Pansy, have you ever looked in the mirror when you're furious?  You looked like a goddess of war.  You looked…"

            "Not wheat bread anymore."

            "No.  Definitely not wheat bread."  Held-in breath came out in a shuddering sigh.  "I'm sorry, Pansy.  We should have had more time."

            With a swift, shaking movement, she enveloped him in a fierce embrace.  Contact hurt, but right then he didn't particularly care.  "You idiot," she whispered.  "I love you.  I will always love you.  Don't you _dare apologize for anything.  I simply won't let you."_

            "Mrs. Malfoy?"

            With slow control, Pansy sat up, and Draco slit open his eyes enough to see.

            A young Auror stood there, grim-faced, his wand at the ready.  "It's time," he said in a clipped voice.

            Pansy stood, facing him.  "Let's go, then," she said in that bored, aristocratic tone that all children of the great wizarding families were fed with their mother's milk.  "I'm ready."

            Her curls were limp as she walked out the door, her skin pasty, her once-fine black robes bedraggled from over a week of hard fighting.  Her face, the last glimpse he ever got of it, was drawn, worn, and haggard.  But she walked like a queen, and as she took the Auror's arm as though being escorted to a ball, he could almost imagine that she was wearing the finest dress robes ever made.  "Love you," he murmured, the words barely more than a faint exhalation of breath.  "Love you."

            Maybe she heard him; maybe she didn't.  Draco relaxed on the bed and closed his eyes.  He didn't feel like opening them again.


End file.
